


Obligation

by aishahiwatari



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Cockney Rhyming Slang, Fade to Black, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Drama, First Kiss, Homophobia, M/M, Mentioned Donald Trump, Mild Sexual Content, Racism, Sexual Tension, Swearing, Thanksgiving Dinner, Typical Conservative Family Stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27683858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: "I cannot make it," Frenchie tells Hughie, like the traitorous traitor he is. "But I have a friend. Perfect for your purposes. He is much more of an asshole than I am.”“You want me to fake date someone I’ve never met?”“You want me to spend all of Thanksgiving with your insane, American family for a refurbished iPhone?”“We agreed!”“And he will help you, for the same price. No problem. I gave him your address.”
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Comments: 56
Kudos: 264





	Obligation

**Author's Note:**

> Invented poor Hugh a family just for this fic. They’re a nightmare. I’m so sorry.
> 
> Written with much appreciated help from the wonderful, amazing [Trick](https://lt-trick.tumblr.com/), who only occasionally complained I was asking a great deal of questions about a holiday I don’t celebrate for a fic I started writing in April.

“Frenchie! You’re dumping me?”

“I was never actually your boyfriend, you know-“

“Fuck you. You know what I mean. I have to eat Thanksgiving dinner with my dad and his three awful sisters and their daughters, and if I don’t have a fake asshole boyfriend to tell them off, I’m stuck dealing with it, and their comments about why I’m still fucking single, for two days!”

“Well- I am sorry. I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“I- Thanksgiving stuff.”

“What does Thanksgiving celebrate?”

Frenchie thinks, for a moment. “Turkeys?”

“Fuck you, so much.”

“Anyway. If you would let me finish. I cannot make it. But I have a friend. Perfect for your purposes. He is much more of an asshole than I am.”

“You want me to fake date someone I’ve never met?”

“You want me to spend a whole day and night with your insane, American family for a refurbished iPhone?”

“We agreed!”

“And he will help you, for the same price. No problem. I gave him your address.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“See you tomorrow!”

“We’re not in ‘til Monday! It’s Thanksgiving!”

Frenchie waves dismissively over his shoulder, as he leaves, like the kind of traitorous traitor who says he’ll fake-date a work colleague then backs out at the last minute. Fuck.

Hughie gathers up his stuff from his desk and gets ready to go too. He’d been grateful he wasn’t working the holiday this year, but then his dad had announced his family was coming to visit and he would rather have had the overtime pay.

Now, Hughie loves his dad. But there’s a reason he is the way he is, and that reason is a fucking terrible family. He has no idea why his dad even stays in touch with them, when all they seem to do is question his life choices. And okay, maybe he’s not the most motivated or productive or ambitious person ever, but he’s good, damnit. And he doesn’t deserve the constant passive-aggressive comments or the chipping away at his confidence.

But Hughie gets worn down by it too, can’t stand up for him against that onslaught. He needs help.

He hopes Frenchie’s friend is resilient.

-

“Oh, fuck me,” Hughie says, when he opens the door to his apartment to greet a tall, dark, bearded man who’s a little older than he’d expected, but also much, much hotter.

“Well, let’s see how the day goes first, shall we?”

“Oh, you’re British,” Hughie realises, breathlessly, a little shrilly. The guy winks, and Hughie’s knees go a little weak. This is not good. Who the fuck is this guy? “You’re uhh- Frenchie’s friend?”

“Billy Butcher. Just call me Butcher. Everyone does. Pleased to meet you.” He holds out a hand. A big, strong hand that’s warm in Hughie’s when he vaguely manages to shake it, still staring helplessly at the knowing smile he’s earning with his graceless, flustered introduction.

“You- too. Fuck, sorry. Come in. I’m Hughie.”

“Yeah, Frenchie said.” Butcher shrugs off his coat in one casual motion as he steps through the door and Hughie swallows at the sight of his arms. Fuck. It’s 8am. He needs to get a grip. Butcher’s still talking. “I got the gist of what you want from Frenchie but- as I understand it, basically you want to piss off your conservative family with a fake boyfriend.”

“Yeah. Do you- want a drink? I have coffee, or- I don’t have tea. Is that insensitive?”

“Not having tea? Yeah. What, you think they should throw it all in the harbour?” Butcher’s expression and tone darken and Hughie actually takes a step back before a brow is quirked in his direction and he can catch his breath and sigh with relief.

“Oh, you’re good at that,” he breathes, just about.

“Right? Coffee is fine. Black, no sugar.”

“You’re already sweet enough?”

“Don’t you know it.” Butcher winks again, and fuck, Hughie is going to have to stop making him do that, because he nearly staggers on his way to the coffee pot.

When he hands the mug over, he’s composed himself enough to explain, despite the warm brush of fingers and warmer, interested gaze on him, “It’s not just the- boyfriend thing, though. They’re not nice people. They’re passive-aggressive and outright mean, and it really gets my dad down. But I’m not- all that assertive.”

“You don’t say.”

“Fuck you,” it’s instinct to respond, and for a moment Hughie panics, but Butcher just looks- amused, and kind of impressed? This might actually work out. They certainly seem to have enough chemistry to make a decent, casual go of it for the day, anyway. “It’s just- derailing the discussions about what my dad could have done with his life, if- basically if he hadn’t married my mom, and had me.”

And Butcher’s here to literally be aggressive and abrasive, but his expression is soft and his tone softer when he says, “Hughie. I moved three thousand miles to get away from my family. I understand. They can be cunts.”

Hughie chokes on his coffee.

Butcher claps him on the back, “We’ll be alright.”

He speaks with more assertion than valid reason, but fuck, Hughie wants to believe him.

-

“So, uhh-“ Hughie thinks it’s best to get it out the way at the first opportunity, so he pipes up as they walk down the stairs of his building on their way out to his dad’s. “Do you want to go over the phone thing now or later? ‘Cause I have some ideas, but- it’s fine if you want to wait ‘til after today but I didn’t know if maybe you wanted some kind of guarantee, or-“

“It’s fine, Hughie. I trust you.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Plus I know where you live.”

“That is- both accurate and slightly concerning.”

“You don’t trust me? I am- shocked. And appalled.” Butcher’s smiling though. He looks good like that. And he’s funny, in a dry, sardonic sort of way. Hughie actually likes him. He had thought this would be another part of the day to suffer through for the sake of spite and revenge, but maybe he’ll actually enjoy it.

He’s done worse than flirt with gorgeous men, even if said man is technically being paid to endure his presence.

Fuck, is Butcher an escort? Do they habitually accept payment in phones? How would Frenchie know him? Hughie has a lot of questions and not much time; his dad only lives a few blocks away, and they’re not even picking up any food.

“So do you, uhh- do this often?”

“Attend holidays I don’t celebrate with total strangers? No.”

“What- do you do? I- should probably know, right? If you’re my boyfriend, and all.” Hughie shrugs, trying to pull off casual and failing enormously, although Butcher doesn’t comment on that. They’re walking close together, on the narrow sidewalk, and the occasional bump of their shoulders is making Hughie’s skin tingle pleasantly. He has to swallow more words to keep from rambling, from making his discomfort even more obvious, and his hands are stuffed in his pockets, sweating with nerves despite the cold weather.

“Good point. How long have we been dating, anyway?”

“Uhh-“

“Bloody hell, Hughie. Alright, how long have you been claiming to have a boyfriend?”

“A- few months.”

“Alright, well. You do IT stuff like Frenchie, right? Maybe I was your client.”

“We’re- not allowed to fraternise with the clients.”

“Well, that’s why you kept it a secret all this time.”

“Oh, yes!” Hughie’s beginning to get on board with this, now that he’s thinking about it properly. He’s always done his best work under pressure. And this is, although he hates himself for the ease with which he makes the comparison, no worse than creating a character back-story in Dungeons and Dragons. “And now the contract’s up, so it’s safe to admit it. But that’s why we don’t have any pictures together.”

“You’re getting it. We can be taking things slow because I just came out of a big thing, if you like. And- I was born in London. East End. No siblings. I have a dog. English Bull.”

“Oh, cute. What’s its name?”

“Terror.”

“Adorable.”

“He is. Anyway. Let me answer the difficult questions, I’m pretty good at thinking on my feet. Just do that thing where you get all shy and stammer, I’ll take over.”

Hughie can’t formulate a response to that, which he thinks proves Butcher’s point.

-

“Hughie.” Hughie’s dad answers the door to greet them, and Hughie hugs him, trying to convey all his helpless love in that one gesture, because he’s definitely not going to get the chance to express it or even get a word in, over dinner.

Then his dad turns to Butcher, “And you must be-“

“William Butcher, sir. Pleased to meet you. Thank you for having me.”

Hughie stares. He can’t help it. It’s like hearing an entirely different person, one with almost the same accent but wildly skewed nature. Gone are the teasing undertones, the threat of imminent curse words, replaced entirely with faultless charm and what sounds like it might even be genuine gratitude.

He’s good.

“Well, William. It’s very nice to meet you. I hope we can get to know each other.”

“I’d like that.”

Oh, god. The talk Hughie’s going to have to have with his dad after all this is going to hurt, Hughie just knows it. He does his best to smile reassuringly anyway, and not to visibly startle when Butcher’s hand finds the small of his back to urge him gently inside.

Hughie looks over, and it’s not difficult to allow his attraction and even growing affection for the man to shine through. There’s a short moment, suspended in time, where their eyes meet and nothing else matters, and then-

“Hughie!”

God, why couldn’t they have just met at work and gone on an actual date? Not that Butcher would have agreed to that, or Hughie would ever have found the courage to ask.

“Hey, Aunt Shelby.”

Comfortably at the safest end of the family awfulness scale, Hughie’s aunt Shelby is a short, homely-looking woman with a cold, dead heart and the forked tongue of a viper. She hugs him tightly and for too long, and Hughie’s going to smell of her flowery perfume all day, and then she turns to Butcher.

“And you must be the boyfriend.”

She goes in for another hug but is stalled when he extends a hand instead and shows no sign of yielding, his accent crisper and clearer than ever when he says, “William Butcher, ma’am. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh- well. Very polite.” Aunt Shelby shakes his hand, although Hughie can tell it costs her greatly to be denied that hug. “Please, come in. We’re just preparing to watch the parade. You two nearly missed the beginning.”

Hughie wonders how many more thinly-veiled criticisms he’ll absorb before the end of the weekend.

Except his Aunt Karen’s response is even worse. Tall, blonde, and bony, she’s in the kitchen, already pouring mimosas. “Oh, Hughie. It’s so good to see you. It’s been so long. Your dad’s said you’ve been getting mixed up in all kind of things and I worry about you so. It’s not safe here in New York.”

“I’m alright, Aunt Karen. I’m taken care of.” Hughie extends a hand to Butcher, who obligingly brushes their fingers together in casual affection, steps up to his side, a warm and calming presence.

“Well, we’d much rather you moved upstate with us. I don’t understand why you don’t, you know, that job of yours is hardly worth staying for. It’s so impersonal here.”

“Well, who wants to get to know their neighbours, anyway,” Hughie attempts to lighten the mood, accepts the glass that’s handed to him, and then- 

“Well don’t just stand here, we’ll miss the parade!”

Oh, boy. “Shit, I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t think it was going to be that bad.”

“S’alright.” Butcher’s tone is conversational but his eyes are hard, and he watches Karen cross the room to perch on the arm of the couch in front of the TV. They’re talking about the floats they saw last year like there’s nothing that could possibly be wrong.

Hughie has no idea what to say. He kind of feels like he wants to cry, because this is something that he could easily have done with good intentions. He cares about what Butcher thinks and how he feels, of course, because he’s a decent person, but- if a member of his family treated his boyfriend like that, really? Something catches in his throat as he says, “Maybe we should just go.”

“Nah, two out of three isn’t bad. You want to have dinner with your dad. I can handle this. It’s what I’m here for. I’ll manage.”

“You want a drink?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Hughie hands over his glass, goes hunting for another and makes his own drink, feeling eyes on him but only meeting Butcher’s with a grateful smile as his nerves start to settle, just a little. They clink in a toast, and then Hughie’s dad is calling them over, with a clap on the shoulder for Hughie and a friendly nod to Butcher. It’s nice, on this side of the room.

“Hey Hughie.”

“Hey, Chutney.” Hughie greets his pre-teen cousin, who doesn’t bother to look up from her phone. 

Beside him, Butcher chokes on his drink.

That, the sound of potential imminent death, earns Chutney’s already-jaded gaze from beneath a curtain of long, brown hair. “Who’re you?”

“Chutney, dear, this is Hughie’s friend, Mr Butcher.” Chutney’s mother is Davina. Angular with dark hair, she’s the oldest of the siblings, and very much in control of everything, even when she’s not. “William, isn’t it?” She carries on without waiting for Butcher to do more than fail to interrupt, holding out a red-clawed hand. “So nice to meet you. I’m Davina. Hugh’s oldest sister. So glad you’re here with us. We were worried Hughie might have been associating with the wrong sort. They just let so many foreigners into a city like this that you never know who’s going to be upholding traditional American values.”

Like watching a car crash, Hughie can do nothing to stop what’s happening.

Butcher waits until her hand’s in his before saying, “Well, I might have some bad news for you, love.”

Davina drops Butcher’s hand like it’s burning.

Chutney drops her phone. “Oh my gosh, you’re British. That is so cool.”

“Chutney, dear-”

“What, mom? It’s not like he’s Mexican or something.”

“Although it would be fine if he was.” Hughie’s dad pipes up, not quite loudly enough to join the conversation. Hughie shoots him a grateful look all the same. It means a lot to know that his dad doesn’t care about that kind of thing. That he just wants him to be happy, even though he grew up in this nest of vipers.

Chutney is persevering, but since she’s the only one speaking to Butcher like he’s an actual human being Hughie can think of no reason to object. “You’re English though. Like Harry Potter.”

A high-pitched voice emanating from the depths of the couch says, “Harry Potter!”

Oh. The last time Hughie saw Loretta, she was just about toddling around. Davina doesn’t usually bring her. Now she’s bigger, more like a real person, terrible though that sounds, although it doesn’t stop her from clambering into Chutney’s lap to get closer to Butcher and ask, “You know Harry Potter?”

“I know of him. Never met him, although with that invisibility cloak of his, I might have run into him without even realising.”

Chutney rolls her eyes. Loretta squeals, reaches for Butcher, or maybe for his shirt, which is bright blue, covered in equally bright flowers and -now Hughie looks closely for the first time- fish. Davina is hovering like she might intervene, but all Butcher does is shake Loretta’s hand, much to her delight.

“Or like Alfred. From Batman.” Chutney perseveres, hauling Loretta onto her lap and aggressively cuddling her so she doesn’t try to climb into Butcher’s arms at the first opportunity.

“Never really been a superhero fan.” Butcher says, and maybe Hughie’s imagining things but he seems a little subdued, by then. Maybe it’s the general reception getting to him, or the topic at that moment, but Hughie presses against his side and slips an arm around his waist, and receives a surprised, soft, grateful smile in response, setting to rest his fears that the physical contact might be unwelcome. For a moment, it’s like they’re caught in each other’s eyes, but then Chutney makes a retching sound and Loretta tries to copy her but ends up coughing, and the parade is starting anyway, so they turn to the TV.

But Hughie doesn’t move his arm from around Butcher’s waist, and Butcher doesn’t move except to turn his head and ask questions about the parade. Hughie’s history is patchy, Davina’s explicit but at times wildly inaccurate, and Chutney’s only here to see Spongebob. Apparently she likes him ironically. Hughie can’t bring himself to say anything when Butcher’s buried his face in Hughie’s hair to hide his smile.

Then Loretta sees Olaf and it’s just shrieking renditions of Let it Go for the next twenty minutes.

Loretta even sings a couple herself.

-

“Your dad gunna need a hand with dinner?” Butcher asks, when the parade coverage is over, and it seems like he’s actually prepared to do it, if needed. It’s- sweet. And impressive, how he manages to observe everything that’s happening in the room, not distracted by Chutney’s unsubtle staring or the general air of discontent in the air, amidst the obligatory seasonal cheer. He’s on his guard, and Hughie isn’t sure if it’s for Butcher’s own sake or his, but he appreciates it all the same. Makes him feel like he doesn’t have to be switched on and vigilant quite so constantly. Someone’s got his back.

“He’ll be okay, for now, but- maybe in a bit? First we have to watch the turkey pardon.”

“Come again?”

“The- every year, the president pardons two turkeys. It’s weird, but- kind of cute. They go and live on a ranch instead of being slaughtered.”

There’s a moment’s pause.

“This is- just one of those things you tell gullible foreigners you do for a laugh, isn’t it?” Butcher says, then.

“Well, fuck me rigid,” he says, after, when the president starts giving his speech. “This is an actual thing.”

Hughie is the only one in the room who hasn’t turned to stare at him in horrified silence. Somehow, he manages not to laugh. It’s tempting. Butcher’s expression visibly twists in confusion, the more that’s said, and Hughie frankly finds that far more entertaining than the event itself.

“What, you don’t have any weird holiday traditions back in England?”

“No, all our- oh, no. We do have bonfire night.”

“What’s bonfire night?” Chutney pipes up gleefully.

“Well, on the fifth of November… a long time ago, I don’t remember, sixteen-something, a man named Guy Fawkes plotted to blow up the Houses of Parliament, which is the home of our government, but got apprehended before he could manage it. So now we commemorate that event by having children create effigies of him, and cart them around in wheelbarrows begging for money, and then in the evening we throw the effigies on a big bonfire and set off fireworks.”

“What’s an effigy?”

“It’s like a- model. Of a person. Life-size.”

“Mommy, can we do bonfire night?” Loretta gets excited, like all reasonable small children, about the prospect of watching things burn that shouldn’t be burned. Hughie doesn’t think it sounds like such a bad idea either, if he’s honest.

“No, darling. Look what you did, Hughie. She’s a child. She shouldn’t be getting such ideas.”

“Oh, look, the turkeys!” Hughie swiftly diverts everyone’s attention back to the television. He’s had a lot of practice at this. “Anybody want another drink?” he asks too, and disappears as though everyone has answered in the affirmative, lamenting only the slide of Butcher’s warm hand from its resting place at the small of his back. He takes a few moments to stick his head in the refrigerator and breathe, hoping the cool air will do him some good.

It doesn’t, but it doesn’t make things any worse, which is a start.

It calms his heart rate, but as soon as he hands a glass to Butcher and receives a warm smile and a wink in response, it picks up again. For much better reasons.

-

“Come on,” Hughie says, when the turkeys are on their way to their state-sponsored retirement. “I’ll get my laptop, we can watch the end of the dog show.

“If you’re going to tell me the president’s pardoning dogs-“

“No! It’s just- a competition. By the kennel club.”

“Oh, like Crufts?”

“Like what?”

“Nevermind. Lead the way.”

Hughie does. He can’t resist looking back as he does, to ask, “What, do you just stuff them and set them on fire, back home?”

“Not dogs! Jesus. Just people.”

They make it out of the room with Hughie making brief significant eye contact with his dad, letting him know he’s taking his designated hour out before coming back to help with dinner. They get a knowing look in response, and yeah, Hughie fucking wishes they were sneaking off to make out. Instinctively he reaches back to take Butcher’s hand, is surprised to find it warm and steady and willingly in his before he can release it and apologise.

His grateful smile is returned with a wink, and his heart stutters in his chest at the reminder of their deception, the reinforced knowledge that this isn’t real. He has to get a grip.

But it’s hard. Fuck, it’s hard, when Butcher crowds against him so there’s room for them both to sit on his old single bed, and he leans with his arm on the headboard so it’s practically wrapped around Hughie’s back, and he’s even more implausibly gorgeous close up.

Did he think the dog show was a euphemism? Just an excuse to get him alone? Hughie kind of wishes it was, because that would be much cooler than reality.

He’s building up the courage, trying to will his hands not to shake over the keyboard, conscious of Butcher’s gaze taking in what remains of his childhood décor (thankfully no superhero posters remain, but it is still without a doubt the bedroom of an unapologetic nerd) and the fact that this is a ridiculous excuse for a first date. He could not have been less impressive if he tried, but miraculously, Butcher’s body is still warm against his side, even though nobody’s watching, and when Hughie’s breath comes out shaky, Butcher turns his head, noses at Hughie’s hairline, murmurs in his ear, “You alright?” apparently in an effort to make it several times worse.

He has to know exactly what he’s doing, except when Hughie moves, has to shift away just a little to face him, his eyes widen fractionally like he’s as surprised by the spark between them as Hughie is.

Hughie thinks he should say something, but the moment his lips part, Butcher’s gaze flickers down and he suddenly can’t remember any words at all. They’re so close, it would be so easy, and Hughie overthinks everything but he can’t find a single reason to deny this.

At least until Loretta slams the door open and demands, “You watching dogs?”

It’s a brutal wrench back to reality, but Butcher rests his head on Hughie’s shoulder as he laughs, ruefully, and he doesn’t move his arm.

Loretta clambers onto the bed, and Hughie knows her mother will hit the roof if she finds Loretta sitting too close to this new and unknown stranger, so he sets the laptop down in front of her, angled so they can see it too.

It’s- still nice. It’s not making out with an implausibly gorgeous man who inexplicably seems to be into him too, but it’s not bad.

“Oh, that’s like mine.” Butcher mentions casually at one point, and it’s about the only thing that will tear Loretta’s eyes away from the screen.

“You have a dog?”

“Yeah. Terror. He’s a bulldog.”

“Do you have pictures?”

“Don’t have my phone, sorry love. I’ll send some to Hughie for you, later.”

“Dogs are so cute. I want a dog but mom says it’s cruel to keep them in apartments, but I’d take it out for a walk every single day. She said I could have a hamster but hamsters aren’t as good, and besides, they’re noctunnel which means they sleep during the day-”

She continues on, heedless of whether anyone is actually listening.

“I know you weren’t serious but I do still want to see pictures of your dog.” Hughie whispers to Butcher, who just smiles.

“Who said I wasn’t serious?”

Their escape lasts a blessed hour, but by then Hughie can hear noise in the kitchen, and he knows that if they don’t get involved, there’ll be hell to pay.

“Will you change for dinner?” Aunt Davina asks when they emerge, her gaze skimming over Hughie but very pointedly fixing on Butcher, who for a clearly observant and intelligent man, is incredible at playing dumb.

“No, we’re free. Did you need a hand setting the table?”

Hughie just smiles blithely when his interference is encouraged, and Davina stalks off.

He murmurs to Butcher, in an aside where he hopes his amusement and admiration is made clear, “I think they expected you to dress up.”

“I am dressed up! This is a designer shirt.”

“You look like you’re planning on starring in a porn version of The Matrix.”

“That is- the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“You need better friends. Or- maybe a webcam.”

“What makes you think I don’t already have one?”

“You’d be able to afford your own phone, looking like that.”

There’s no response, but Butcher’s pleased smile remains for some time.

-

Before they eat, once they’re sat at the table, surrounded by the wonderful food Hughie’s dad has made -plus a couple of begrudgingly procured side dishes, courtesy of his sisters- they go around, and they say what they’re thankful for.

As the honoured guest, Butcher is volunteered to go first, but judging by his wide eyes, turned in Hughie’s direction and his uncertain, “Uhh-“ this is not something he prepared for.

“It’s okay,” Hughie reaches out, touches his hand without thinking and finds his fingers squeezed helplessly. “We can come back to you.”

“Thanks. This is- my first Thanksgiving.”

Karen tuts disapprovingly, as though Butcher could have a single reason to celebrate the holiday in any other situation. Hughie doesn’t even know how long he’s been in the country, but this is not the time to have that discussion.

Shelby is all-too happy to show him how it’s done, pronounces herself thankful for that new yacht. She waxes poetic about it for a good few minutes. Chutney’s hand is inching towards the dish of potatoes.

Butcher’s fingers are still tangled with Hughie’s. Neither of them is letting go.

Karen is thankful for Saks 5th Avenue listening to reason and upgrading her membership.

And Davina- well, she’s thankful for Trump, and all he’s done.

Butcher’s grip on Hughie’s fingers tightens, and without thinking Hughie strokes with his thumb, trying to soothe. He thinks it works. Some of the tension leaves Butcher’s shoulders, anyway.

Chutney is thankful for getting on the basketball team. Hughie hadn’t known she was into that. He makes a mental note to ask her about it later.

Loretta, sweet, innocent and oblivious, is thankful for making a new friend who might know Harry Potter and is nice to her uncle Hughie.

“Thank you, Loretta,” Hughie makes sure to say, before anyone can tell her to change it. “That means a lot.”

Butcher even echoes a, “Thank you,” beside him, although Hughie’s not sure whether the waver in his voice is from uncertainty or genuine emotion.

There are tears in Hughie’s eyes by the time his dad has finished his thanks for his healthy family and his son, who seems so happy with his life, after everything.

Hughie loves him so much. He sniffles a little before he can voice the words he’s been rehearsing in his head basically since the previous Thanksgiving, with some small additions. He’s grateful for his family, and if he looks mostly at his dad while he says it, well, it’s a nice moment. He’s also grateful for his recent unexpected promotion to a supervisor, and to a certain someone who was willing to spend their holiday with him, even though they haven’t even known each other that long.

Butcher gives him a lopsided smile, and is grateful -although he doesn’t say it- for the reprieve he’s been given when the table swiftly moves on to saying grace.

It’s the duty of the youngest person at the table, and Chutney attempts to wrest control with the aim of moving things along but is denied by Loretta, who insists that she’s big enough now, and she knows all the words.

She does. With minimal stammering, and -Hughie suspects Peppa Pig and Harry Potter of their connivance- a surprisingly convincing British accent, she recites, with careful enunciation, her hands clasped and head bowed, “God is great. God is good. Let us thank him for our food. Amen.”

When Hughie lifts his head, Butcher is staring at her helplessly, like she thrust her hand into his chest and pulled his heart out. It takes a gentle nudge before he blinks back into awareness and accepts his helping of turkey.

“It’s really good, dad,” Hughie makes sure to say, at the first opportunity. It won’t be said nearly often enough today, so he wants to get in there.

“Thank you, Hughie.”

"So, Hughbert.”

Fuck, he hates that fucking nickname. Unfortunately, Davina is the sort of person who thinks persevering with something Hughie hates is character-building. “Yeah?” he says, acknowledging the comment but approaching the limits of his indulgence.

“You’re still working at that shitty electronics place," isn't really even a question, but it’s nothing he didn’t expect, because he’s heard all this before.

“The family-owned, American-run business? Yeah.”

That stumps her, at least for long enough for Shelby to chime in, right as Butcher is passing her some green beans, right over Hughie.

"What happened to that nice girl, Robin? She was so sweet."

That is- wildly inaccurate. Robin is wonderful in many ways; strong, confident, motivated, ambitious. She has never been sweet.

They still get along, but she broke up with him because she thought he was never going to make any meaningful progress in life without someone to drag him along with them. She didn’t want that person to be her. Hughie doesn’t think it’s entirely fair, but he didn’t manage to summon up the assertion to argue that point at the time, which pretty much proved it.

“We’re still friends,” he manages, through gritted teeth, his shoulders tensing until he feels a warm hand on his shoulder, Butcher reaching over to try and comfort him, even though he has to have no fucking clue what this is all about. He’s sweet, in a weird sort of way. He could easily get through this without showing affection; that’s what these people expect, after all, and it’s not part of their agreement, but he’s making an effort. Maybe he really does have his own terrible family to contend with. Maybe they’re even worse.

Hughie may never find out.

"You didn't even bring pie,” Karen piles on her own commentary, as though Hughie might not quite have received the message yet. “You had one job. Luckily, I brought some."

Hughie’s dad specifically told him not to bring pie, because he was making his own. Hughie grits his teeth. Butcher squeezes his shoulder harder, even though it has to be getting difficult for him to eat, by now, and Hughie leans into the contact, allows himself to take comfort in the knowledge that he has a life outside this room, apart from this nightmare weekend. These people do not define him.

"And Hugh, you've always been a damn nervous wreck. Just _look_. Hughie turned out no better. It’s no wonder he can't hold on to a girl."

It’s a collection of well-worn criticisms, and Hughie doesn’t know if it’s the repetition, the phrasing or the company, but it seems to hit harder than ever this time. He’s shaking, with all he’s trying to suppress, his fists clenched under the table

And finally Karen acknowledges Butcher, but it’s with a dismissive wave, and- “It’s no wonder he thinks he's got to do all this to get your attention."

There is at least a moment of appropriately stunned outrage at that comment. Even Chutney stops with her fork halfway lifted to her mouth.

When Butcher opens his mouth as though he wants to respond, it’s Hughie who gets there first, long years of resentment building up to a surprisingly coherent crescendo. He’s rehearsed this in his head every time he’s seen his dad back down when he could have stood up, when he doubted his own value because of these hateful people, and he’s not going to just accept it anymore.

“Okay, you know what? That’s enough. My dad is a good person. You think it’s a bad thing that he just wants to be happy, instead of caring about what people think? He has done a great job just keeping a roof over our heads after my mom died, and you, his family were no goddamn help. I have nothing but respect for him. So, I would rather be like him, than any of you. I fucking hope I am.

“And Robin? It didn’t work out. We still get along, because going our separate ways was better than both of us being together but miserable. And- I don’t know where you’ve got the idea that hanging onto any girl is better than dating this man. Have you seen him? Are you looking at the same person I am?”

For a moment, Hughie’s worried he might have gone too far but Butcher is hiding a genuine smile, his eyes bright with amusement and- something else. The twist of Chutney’s lips and contemplative tilt of her head reveals she, at least, thinks he has a point, even if the older women’s gazes are less forgiving, in Hughie’s peripheral vision.

“And I’m not- doing this for attention. It’s called being bisexual. Read a goddamn book, you might learn something.”

He practically falls back into his seat, can’t meet anyone’s eyes, takes a healthy swig of his drink to try and quell the rising panic that he’s done something he can never come back from. There’s a sense of relief that he’s finally said it, all that he’s been keeping in for years, and hope that his dad will understand that he did this because he loves him, but mostly it’s an all-consuming darkness threatening to enclose him, his own words echoing in his head.

There’s a warmth across his back, Butcher’s arm around his shoulders as he leans in to murmur in his ear, loud enough for everyone to overhear, “I figured out what I’m thankful for.”

And Hughie’s heart is racing, trying to pound out of his chest, his hands are shaking, his brain refusing to slow, but he laughs, and he’s so grateful for the support, the diversion, that he can do nothing but turn to meet those gorgeous hazel eyes.

Maybe it’s what he sees there, or the words still sending shivers down his spine, or just a sense that they’re on the same side, but the world falls away, recedes to the two of them.

But he leans in, so naturally there’s no way anybody could possibly know they only met each other this morning; he’s practically forgotten, himself. There’s no resistance, not from Butcher, not from his own mind, as they kiss for the first time right there at that table, a chaste brush of lips that lingers like Butcher might be savouring it as much as he is.

Hughie’s sure he’s smiling dumbly, breathless, by the time they part, and whatever it is Butcher’s searching for in his expression, he seems to find it, settles back in his seat with a pleased expression on his face.

“Gross,” Chutney says, but she’s smiling around another forkful of food. 

Hughie clears his throat and stares at his plate, calmed only by the big, warm hand that comes to rest on his knee.

And, after a few moment of awkward silence, by his dad raising a glass, "To Hughie and Billy."

Chutney throws back her sparkling apple juice with a whoop.

Hughie just smiles at his dad with tear-filled eyes and covers Butcher’s hand with his, and barely remembers to drink. His family is right here. He just- doesn’t need all of them.

His rant is not acknowledged. He didn’t expect it to be. But at least silence reigns over the table for a while, and he can really appreciate the food his dad spent all that time preparing.

Until- “So- you’re here permanently?”

“Dad.”

“It’s alright, Hughie, it’s a valid question. Yes, sir, I am. I moved here after my first tour-“

“You were in the Army?” Shelby interrupts, with what is definitely the wrong kind of interest in her voice. She’s already too drunk to acknowledge or even notice the dark glare Hughie shoots in her direction.

“Royal Marines, actually.”

Holy fuck. Hughie- wouldn’t have seen it. Butcher does not look like a typical Marine. It’s difficult to imagine him in a uniform. But somehow, he can believe it. Butcher’s disciplined, alert, confident. Adaptable.

“Semper Fi,” Davina cuts in.

“We say Per Mare, Per Terram, but- thank you. Met a lot of Ya- Americans out in Iraq. Finished my tour, applied for a job. Had my residency over ten years now. My life’s here. I’m not going anywhere.”

It- feels like a promise. Hughie shivers at the conviction that vibrates through his bones, in more than just the tone of Butcher’s voice or the squeeze of the hand that’s now resting on his knee.

“What is it you do, now?”

“Private security.”

Hughie doesn’t know how he knows that’s a lie, but he does. He eats his food, and he allows the conversation to wash over him, confident Butcher can hold his own even in the face of building resistance.

In a moment of blissful silence, and through a mouthful of mashed potato, Chutney asks Butcher, “So you’re bi too?”

“Chutney!”

Butcher just smiles though, nods, “Yeah, I am.”

Well, that’s- good to know.

Less good that Chutney is eyeing them both contemplatively as she stabs her fork directly into the serving dish to claim more mashed potatoes.

But Butcher is still smiling, so Hughie lets it go.

-

Dessert goes- well, about as well as dinner, with slightly less shouting on Hughie’s part at least. And more of Butcher’s hand resting warmly on his knee, although Hughie suspects a slightly ulterior motive for that one when Butcher has little apparent opportunity to pick up the fork for his pumpkin pie, and then slides it over to Chutney at her first longing look.

“Not a fan?” Hughie asks, while his aunts are occupied in an argument about Chutney being forced by her school into the heinous task of learning other languages.

“Just- vegetables in desserts. Too weird. Carrot cake is about my limit.”

“You want something else?” Hughie’s offer is met with a fondly exasperated look that makes his heart skip a beat.

“I’m fine, Hughie. Not exactly starving.”

Fuck, Hughie likes the way his name sounds in that voice. “Another drink, then?”

“Any chance of a cup of tea?”

“Of course. Anyone want a drink?”

Everyone does. Hughie goes to fetch them, and as he’s handing them out, listens in to the conversation Butcher is having with Chutney, safely ignored by the rest of the table while Hughie’s dad goes to prepare the bedrooms.

“Uhh-“ she chews on her lip, then finds her resolve to say, barely faltering, “I’m going to see a movie with my china.”

“That’s it! You’re getting it!” Butcher grins at her, which is- a very good look on him, even if the statement doesn’t seem to be accurate by Hughie’s understanding of the English language.

Chutney’s fully on board, though, smiling proudly at her apparent achievement. “It’s like code.”

“Right. You learn a few of these, you can chat about anything and no-one will have a Scooby.”

Okay, that one Hughie’s heard before. He knows what it means, although he has no idea how. His mom, maybe? He sets glasses in front of his aunts, nods vaguely to whatever they say at him.

“Scooby-“ Chutney is frowning, thinking.

“It’s got two steps. So what’s the full phrase?”

“Scooby Doo?”

“Right. And then it rhymes, so- no-one will have a-“

“A clue!”

“What is happening?” Hughie slips back into his seat to ask, handing Butcher his tea and receiving a grateful smile tinged rueful.

“Chutney’s not allowed to learn Spanish so I’m teaching her some- traditional English.”

“Cockney rhyming slang?”

“Who could complain about that?” Butcher knows full well what he’s doing, and Hughie can’t think of a single reason to stop him.

Neither can Chutney. “What else?”

“Uhh- alright. Trying to think of ones that make sense without a history lecture.” Butcher contemplates. “How’s this, I’ll do you two for one. Blimey son, have a butcher’s at her minces.”

“Butcher-“ Hughie has a sinking feeling.

“It’s alright.” Butcher only glances at him, but his hand on Hughie’s knee is strong and reassuring, as he looks to Chutney and prompts. “Go on.”

“Butcher’s- shop? Or- knife?”

“Alright, no, that one’s a bit hard. It’s butcher’s hook. So have a- or take a-“

“Look! And- minces? Mince- beef?”

“Mince pies. Means her eyes, Hughie, get your mind out of the gutter.”

Speaking of eyes, Hughie rolls his, shifts a little closer as that warm hand leaves his knee so Butcher can slide an arm around his waist. It definitely softens the blow of having his anxiety poked at for the purposes of comedy, light-hearted as he knows it is.

“Yeah, Hughie, you’re such a septic.” Chutney- agrees? Hughie can’t really tell, looks to Butcher.

“Septic tank. Yank. Believe me, it is the least offensive thing I could have taught her. I skipped all the really racist ones.”

“That’s- still kind of racist.”

Butcher’s the one to roll his eyes at that, but he does concede, leaning back in his seat as he nods at Chutney. “Alright treacle, no calling your baker’s dozen a Septic.”

She shrugs, surprisingly amiably. “Okay. I don’t want no Barney.”

That- nope. Hughie’s got nothing.

Butcher pulls him in a little closer, murmurs in his ear. “Barney Rubble. Trouble.”

“Oh, I hate this. But your mom’s gunna hate it more, so- go nuts.”

**-**

“Least I didn’t teach her what berk meant.” Butcher says, as they clear yet more plates, rinsing them off at the sink, enjoying a rare moment of almost-aloneness while everyone else is distracted.

“Is berk- rhyming slang?”

“Well, it’s short for Berkshire Hunt, so- what do you think?”

“Maybe save that one for next year.” Hughie smiles as he says it, although it falters pretty fast when he realises what he did. Fuck, he hadn’t meant to even imply that this might lead to more, let alone state it outright. He doesn’t want to put any pressure on the guy who is, as far as he knows, just providing a service in return for payment.

A very dedicated service. One that compels him to set one of those big, strong hands to the small of Hughie’s back, to lean in and kiss his cheek, pressing a smile to his skin like it means nothing. Hughie feels warmed through, but shivery, and it’s only the lingering caress that calms him enough to keep working, conscious of the heat that must be visible on his face.

**-**

Staying overnight is not Hughie’s idea of fun, but the solution to both awkwardness and emotion is to drink, apparently. Hughie said that he’d stay, and stay sober, for the sake of the kids, and his dad has earned the break. Hughie doesn’t begrudge him that, and the tight hug he earned for his offer is more than worth the trouble.

So he and Butcher are together on the couch, Hughie on his back, Butcher on his side, pressed up against him with all the intimacy the space will allow. It's big enough for two people, but just barely, and they're wrapped up in each other, Butcher's arm slung over Hughie’s chest like he knows better than to put pressure on his food-swollen stomach.

They’ve kissed so memorably but to do it now would feel like crossing a line, so far from a display that there would be no explanation other than genuine desire. Hughie’s lips are tingling with the memory of stolen affection, and he can’t do more than glance at Butcher’s face without wanting to curl against him and see where this leads. They fit together so well, like jigsaw pieces. The ones that are meant to go together, not the ones forced into place by all the other pieces around them.

"Did you bring anything with you?" he’s asking, hushed, feeling responsible and a little guilty for Butcher's lack of spare clothing or indeed, apparently anything at all. He's still minty fresh and soap-scented, something darker underlying like an expensive, spicy cologne and the leather of his jacket.

"I brought a toothbrush."

"Like Jack Reacher?" Hughie asks, and Butcher smiles and Hughie suspects, but doesn't allow himself to feel the intense thrill of connection until they both confirm, in unison, "The one from the books."

They both laugh a little, quietly, so as not to disturb anyone sleeping in either of the bedrooms.

Butcher's hand twitches, then, and Hughie realises he's touching too, unconsciously, fingers trailing just underneath the hem of Butcher's shirt -his shirt, on Butcher’s body- to trace the lines beneath the curve of his belly where he's overindulged along with the rest of them. His skin is warm, soft, just a little hair there that Hughie aches to follow down, beneath the waistband of his tight, black boxer briefs. He wants to roll and press their bodies together in one long line and kiss until his lips are sore. He wants to see what's beneath those clothes.

"Sorry," he says instead of any of that, because this isn't real, no matter how much it seems like it.

"It's alright. Feels nice.” 

He can’t be imagining the low, pleasurable thrum in Butcher’s murmur, can he?

He doesn’t stop, anyway, and when he turns his head Butcher’s eyes flutter open to look at him, deep and dark, containing so much promise.

Fuck.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Hughie’s heart is racing, and he wonders if Butcher can feel it.

Judging by the way Butcher shifts his arm so he can thumb at Hughie’s jawline, he can feel something.

“Thanks for all your help today, boys,” Hughie’s dad emerges from the bathroom to say, making them both startle. Hughie shifts so the blankets better conceal the beginnings of an erection, his light touch turning into a sharp prod to the ribs when Butcher smirks smugly in response.

“It’s alright, Mr Campbell. Happy to help. Wouldn’t be fair to make you do all the work, now, would it?”

“Well, I don’t mind,” Hughie’s dad says, and the worst part is that he probably doesn’t. Probably accepts this as his due. He’s been trained to, his whole life. Hughie is so fucking angry at those women-

Butcher’s palm is a soothing weight over his heart, and Hughie sags. “We’re happy to help, dad.”

“Going t’ be alright, Hughie,” Butcher murmurs in his ear, too, is pressed up against his side, a comforting presence and weight that keeps him grounded.

Hughie doesn't stop the idle trailing of his fingers over Butcher's hip where Hughie's shirt is a little small for him, and he buries his nose in Butcher's hair as he starts to doze off.

-

“Alright, love?”

Hughie’s woken by Butcher’s voice, rough with sleep, grumbles without thinking and cuddles closer to the warm weight beside him, feels a steady hand on his back, a strong arm holding him close-

“I’m hungry.”

Loretta’s voice startles him sharply out of his comfort and back into reality, curled into the body of an almost-stranger on his dad’s couch with his young niece vying for his attention.

Somehow he convinces his vocal chords to work, “I’ll get you something in a minute, ‘Retta. You wanna watch cartoons on my phone?”

At least she’s happy with that, has unplugged it from the charger and settled near their feet so she can share the blanket with them before Hughie can even try to remember where he put it last night.

“Sleep okay?” he mumbles into Butcher’s chest to the soundtrack of some obnoxiously cheery cartoon theme, fighting the urge to press even closer with the hand that smooths comfortingly down his spine.

“I did. You?”

Oh, he sounds good like this, low and gravelly, soft before he’s woken up enough to assemble his defences.

“Yeah. Sorry about the- couch.” Hughie says, probably way too late. He can’t even look Butcher in the eye as he says it, stays safely in his blanket cocoon with his forehead pressed to a delightfully hard chest wrapped in his own familiarly-scented shirt, now tinged with a little something else.

“It’s alright. Wasn’t expecting the Four Seasons. I can sleep anywhere. Not usually in such good company, either.”

Hughie snorts, otherwise defenceless against the genuine warmth in that tone, and those words, and he feels the rumbling laugh it earns him in return. Still taking stock of himself as he wakes up fully, he realises that he’s touching, one arm looped over Butcher’s waist, the other splayed over his lower ribs. Fuck. He could stay here forever, resists the temptation to shift even closer by asking, “You want coffee?”

“Please.”

And oh, that one word does funny, terrible things to his insides, so Hughie tears himself away before he can make everything worse. If the smug smirk aimed at his retreating back is any indication, Butcher knows it too.

It’s still early, so Hughie takes advantage of the empty bathroom to clean up and get dressed. No point wandering around in his underwear when he can feel a little less exposed and look a little more presentable. It’ll make a quick escape easier, too.

As he washes up, he contemplates. He has no idea what to think about this- flirting? Is that even what it is? Hughie does not spend a lot of time with hot strangers who also seem implausibly interested in him for some reason. He hopes it’s real, but- fuck. It doesn’t seem likely. Maybe once Butcher gets paid, he’ll run for the hills and never be heard from again. Or worse, maybe he’ll stick around in hopes of more money.

He didn’t have to hold him, though. Didn’t have to engage with Loretta, or Chutney, didn’t have to stay at Hughie’s side. Touch him. Kiss him. It really, really seemed like that was organic, something neither of them had expected but couldn’t be denied. Hughie hasn’t been kissed like that in a long time. Maybe not ever. And God, he wants to do it again.

So it’s with anticipatory butterflies in his stomach that he returns to the living room. His dad’s still asleep on the cot, but Butcher’s sitting up, blankets pooled in his lap, somehow convincingly nodding along to Loretta’s mostly nonsensical explanation of an already convoluted cartoon. He’s so fucking good with her. The butterflies redouble, and Hughie busies himself with the coffee machine and a traditionally enormous batch of pancakes, trying to pretend he’s not hyper-aware of every movement behind him, of Butcher sloping off to the bathroom himself.

He sets out fruit, and syrup, and gets to cooking, and before long there are the sounds of the apartment coming to life.

Butcher returns looking more artfully tousled than any man who’s just spent the night on a couch has any right to, presses far closer to Hughie than is necessary to retrieve a mug of coffee and takes a sip before he presses a soft, warm kiss to Hughie’s cheek.

Hughie nearly melts, even more nearly spatters pancake batter everywhere at the simple graze of coarse beard, breath against his skin, the brief touch of lips. He’s so fucking doomed, whether Butcher sticks around or not, so there’s no harm in at least pretending it’s real for a little while longer, right?

“You want pancakes?” he asks, with only the slightest unsteady lilt in his voice.

“Sort everyone else out first, eh? I’ll eat with you.”

There has to be something wrong with him, Hughie thinks, as he gets to work. The first plate is for Loretta, who’s brought her colouring to the table, and Butcher settles in beside her to defy Hughie’s first vague supposition that maybe he’s secretly a racist by reminding her gently that a flesh-coloured pencil doesn’t have to be pink.

She’s delighted by the revelation. Hughie dreads to think what her mother will say.

Aunt Shelby is pale beneath her haphazardly applied make-up, and she slumps into a seat at the table with only a nod of acknowledgement for the coffee Hughie places in front of her, and then a wince for whatever that movement does for her head. He could offer her a mimosa, but he doesn’t.

Karen does, when she rocks up, looking much more presentable than her sister. She offers one to Hughie, too, still entirely ignoring Butcher who just smirks as he follows her movements around the room with his eyes and winks at Hughie when he mouths an apology at him.

Chutney’s next; Hughie sets down the next plate of pancakes in front of her and she grins at him with surprising enthusiasm for the time of the morning. “Thanks, Hughie. I am Hank Marvin.”

Butcher chokes on his coffee. Karen regards Chutney with alarm. Even Shelby lifts her head up from where it was resting on the table to stare.

Hughie- doesn’t really know what to do.

It’s Butcher who says, hoarsely, once he’s cleared his throat a few times, “You can just say Hank.”

“Totally Hank,” Chutney agrees, before drenching her pancakes in syrup and digging in.

And Hughie wants to ask- but before he does, he catches Butcher’s eye and catches him smiling, fucking beaming at Karen, who’s clearly fighting a desperate internal battle with her instincts in order not to start an actual conversation with him by demanding an explanation. So he leaves them to it, and makes some more pancakes.

On his way up to get more coffee, Butcher presses even closer than before, touching his lips to Hughie’s cheek, ignoring and even using Karen’s resulting sigh to translate, too low for anyone else to hear, “Means she’s starving.”

“You’re a menace,” Hughie murmurs back, earning himself a pleased smile and another quick kiss.

It’s- been a strangely good holiday, he thinks, even as Davina complains her pancakes are cold, as Shelby lurches off to the bathroom, as Hughie’s dad tries to subtly quiz Butcher on his plans for Christmas. Sure, there’s been plenty of family drama, but this year he feels like he’s been able to take a step back from it, feeling like an observer rather than being trapped in the middle while it rages around him. Nothing felt unbearable, this time, just- ridiculous.

And he’s glad he finally had the confidence and the strength to defend his dad, even if the message hasn’t entirely sunk in. He was heard by the people who matter.

On the other hand, he’s also conscious that next year might feel very lonely, compared to this.

-

They walk back to Hughie’s place in the morning. He’s feeling bereft, somehow too caught up in the dread of losing this to really savour it, or to acknowledge the way their fingers brush too often for it to be accidental as they walk, unobserved by anyone who might judge. He tells himself he’s just trying to gather his courage, to ask for Butcher’s phone number or see if he might want to go for coffee, sometime, on neutral ground when the interaction is solely on their terms and neither of them is being paid.

He doesn’t say a word.

They get to the door of his building, and they traipse up the stairs, the rhythm of their steps slowing with every single one, and somehow Hughie still has his key ready, muscle memory taking over as they reach his apartment.

And Butcher- oh, he’s so rough, but he’s lovely and he tries, even though Hughie is giving him no fucking chances, even though it must hurt to make himself vulnerable like this. “I don’t need the phone right now. I can always pick it up later.”

Hughie has this bizarre conviction, deep down, that when he’s finished the transaction that currently obligates Butcher to spend time with him, he will find his confidence again. He will be able to say- anything. A suggestion that they keep in touch, an offer for another meeting, a straightforward invitation into his apartment and inevitably his bed. Surely levelling the playing field will unstick all those words he’s dying to say.

But beyond- “It’s fine. I have it right here,” he says nothing. He’s had long years of practice and hides intense anxiety well, beneath a low-level constant outward anxiety, so just stares helplessly as Butcher accepts what’s handed to him, slides it into his pocket without even looking at it. He’s too much of a gentleman, far too considerate to push, even though Hughie needs him to, even though Hughie’s fucking stupid and he’s going to lose this, the butterflies in his stomach and the tingling of his skin and just the excitement for time spent with another human being if he doesn’t just- fucking- say something!

Butcher sighs. He opens his mouth, as though to speak, but then he just sighs again, and then with a final pleading, rueful, bereft glance at Hughie, he goes.

Hughie’s left standing in the doorway, swallowing down the urge to be sick with disgust at himself, and he hears those footsteps get quieter, booted feet on worn carpet, and he tries to tell himself that the aching grief is for something he can’t possibly have, something he never deserved, not something he just fucked up so immensely when it was already within his reach.

The door to the building slams shut and he feels it like a tearing in his soul that finally knocks something loose in his mind. He snatches up his keys and runs.

Frankly, he’s expecting to have to do something ridiculous like chase Butcher down the street or flag down a cab to follow the one he just got into, but he all-but falls out onto the sidewalk and Butcher is right there, leaning against the wall. Hughie must be a total fucking mess and look even worse, but Butcher eases himself upright and reaches for him, one graceful, fluid motion that transforms his expression of loss and regret into one of hopeful question. This was all he needed. For Hughie to just- let him know what he wants.

“Do you want to- get coffee sometime?” Hughie asks, breathlessly, even though he’s already pushing into those arms, reaching up to cradle Butcher’s face, so close to kissing him for real, this time.

Butcher’s response is to ask, “How about right now?” and Hughie smiles and closes the gap between them.

They kiss, and it’s with far more enthusiasm than finesse but fuck, it’s good, coarse hair sliding through Hughie’s fingers as he explores the shape of a strong jaw, Butcher apologising for the clash of their teeth with the lap of his tongue. He wraps strong arms around Hughie like he’s something worth keeping, to be treasured, and he smiles when Hughie mewls, barely able to stand against the force of his attention. It’s intense, smouldering, and- fuck. They’re still out on the street, Butcher’s fists clenched in his shirt at his back and Hughie clinging to any part of him he can reach. His blunt fingernails scrabble at fabric, find purchase on warm skin wherever he can access it.

The act of finding words feels almost impossible, but the reality of their situation demands to be accepted, prompted by the whistle of a passer-by at their display. “This is- fucking ridiculous,” Hughie pants, ragged and messy, half into Butcher’s mouth, around the sweep of his tongue, through the possessive growl that rumbles through him.

“Completely. Fuck- where are your keys?”

Oh, yeah. Shit. Hughie fumbles in his pockets; as little as he wants to release the implausibly gorgeous man who’s finally in his arms, he needs to get them inside, in private, where he can rip that shirt right off him and finally map every inch of glorious, tanned skin. “Sorry-“

“Why couldn’t you have had your sexual fucking meltdown while I was still at your door?” Butcher growls, but Hughie’s laughing and then Butcher’s laughing too, too much to kiss, and they manage to drag each other up the stairs, stumbling and breathless, battling obstacles until Hughie’s back hits the wall of his apartment and it’s Butcher pinning him there, warm and strong, so they can kiss properly, long and wet and deep, until Hughie’s knees are weak, his head spinning, his hold on Butcher more to keep himself upright than to prevent him from going anywhere.

He doesn’t seem like he has any intention of stopping, anyway, one hand sliding under Hughie’s shirt, splaying over his skin, like a brand with the heat of him, searing and claiming. Hughie squirms, craving more and unable to express any such desire or demand through the pounding of his pulse in his ears, but Butcher is very much in control here, older and broader and stronger, and he cups a hand over Hughie’s denim-clad cock and pushes, at once both compelling him to move and urging him to be still.

Hughie groans and clings, and he can’t even find the energy to be embarrassed about it. Frankly after a solid day of being within touching distance of this man, kissing him only for the benefit of others, sleeping wrapped in his arms, this is about all the foreplay he can handle. Panting, he meets those eyes, the darkest he’s seen them, and allows himself to believe that this might really be happening, that Butcher might want this as much as he does, even after spending a frankly horrifying holiday with his family. Surviving the worst he has to offer, and still coming back for more.

Somewhere in his lust-addled mind is the conviction he needs to ask, “Wanna try sleeping in a bed, this time?”

And Butcher bares his teeth, eyes wild, renders Hughie’s whole body a livewire of anticipation. “The bed, the sofa, the floor. Wherever you like.”

Hughie takes his hand and leads the way.

**Author's Note:**

> Couple of notes re the Cockney rhyming slang:
> 
> "Baker’s dozen", meaning "cousin" is the only one I used here that I haven’t personally heard, but it fit so well I couldn’t resist.
> 
> And the only other one Butcher didn’t explain as it came up: "treacle" (short for treacle tart) means "sweetheart".
> 
> Also for those of you who recall Butcher saying “I lost my bottle” (short for bottle and glass, which rhymes with arse, which somehow goes on to mean to lose one’s nerve, audacity or courage) to Hughie in season 2, ep 3, what the writers actually meant was “lost my rag” which is not cockney rhyming slang but means to lose one’s temper. This still aggravates me enormously.


End file.
